Cold and Broken
by whisperasweknowit
Summary: He was cold. He was broken.


He was by the trickling stream. Every millimeter of his body ached. Even his mud-streaked ashy blonde hair seemed to ooze pain. The last hour or so had been slow and impossibly painful as he disguised himself into the riverbed. He knew he was nearly invisible, but was it really worth the pain?

At least his death would be quick. _The other tributes seem capable of a clean enough kill,_ he speculated. They would pierce his heart and he wouldn't have to feel this pain anymore. He wouldn't feel the hurt radiating from his skin. His heart would stop, the kill would be clean. He would be free.

_Remember Katniss_, he thought to himself, the words seeming foreign. She had risked her life to go to the banquet the Gamemakers had planned. She had risked her life for his. A crack sounded behind him and he drew in a sharp breath that seemed to shatter each of his ribs into stabbing fragments. He did not breathe again for a good minute, when he was sure there was no human poised to kill him.

Just as he released his breath, a pack of wild looking animals burst from the trees. Their bodies were of an animal similar to that of a canine, but their eyes were painfully human. He opened his mouth to cry out in shock, but no sound came out. The wolfish animals paced towards him, their human eyes not blinking, not leaving him. He realized with a jolt that they greatly resembled the tributes that had already died.

He tried to move.

He tried to escape.

His limbs had gone totally useless. He could not even twitch his pointer finger. The creatures with the haunting eyes drew nearer, snarling. They had seen through his muddy disguise. He tried desperately to move, but he could not. The animals stood up on their hind legs, towering over him. Four-inch claws, each one razor-sharp, emerged from their paws. They stalked towards him, his heart hammering faster and faster against his bruised chest. The first one reached him, bringing its terrible claws to his chest…

Peeta awoke with a start. His sheets lay in a tangled lump on the floor beside his bed. His body was glazed with and icy sweat. He sat up abruptly, breathing hard. He ran his fingers through his damp hair. He stuck his arm out in front of him and flexed each of his fingers in turn. No pain.

It was a few minutes before his breathing had evened out. He heard a tentative yet firm knock at his door. When he did not answer, the knob turned and his father appeared in the crack in the door, wearing an expression laced with worry on his burned face. His broad shoulders blocked the light in the hallway from spilling into Peeta's bedroom. Peeta shook his head at him and he nodded once before closing the door. The boy lay back on his pillow. His eyes watered and he blinked hard, but it was no good.

Before Peeta could do anything, tears had spilled over. He reached a hand down to the sheets on the floor and pulled them up. He sat up again and buried his face in the blanket on his lap. The salty tears seeped into the thin fabric and there was soon a drenched section of the cloth. Peeta finally shook his head to himself and blinked harder than ever, rubbing his eyes roughly.

This was the routine for him now. He woke up, like clockwork, in the early hours of morning from a hideous nightmare about the Games. After convincing himself it had been a dream, his father would appear. Peeta would understand that he must have been screaming. He would shake his head, telling his father to leave him be, and then he would cry. It was painful for him to even think about the tears, and they threatened to spill over when he did.

_The Games did this to you_, a voice whispered in his head.

_I know_, Peeta thought back, imagining the voice to be small and quavering. _I know full well what has caused this._

The Games had left him different. He could see it in the eyes of each person he had known before he had been reaped. He was not the baker's son anymore. He was a boy who had almost died in the arena. He was a boy who had defied the Capitol with Katniss and broken the structure of their little game. He was a boy who had seen murder in the flesh, not just snuggled up safe at home watching it on a screen like a movie. He had experienced what they would kill themselves to avoid.

Since he had returned, people seemed not to recognize him anymore. It was as though he had died in the arena and the Capitol had sent back a crude semblance of himself rather than the real thing. He knew that he was different.

He was cold.

He was broken.

**AN: Inspired by and written while listening to Hallelujah. Happy birthday, Into! I realize this really has nothing to do with you and that it's utterly terrible, but it's the thought that counts, right? Right? Please say right. XD**

**And I'm posting this on the 30****th**** in my time zone, but it's already July in your neck of the woods. /creeper**


End file.
